The Braided Babka of Phosphorescent Reform

In the land of the Loom, where the time-meters hum,

And the hearts of the many are hollow and numb,

There’s a twist in the middle, a swirl in the sky,

Where the stars and the flour and the astrocytes fly!

It’s the Braided Babka of Eternity,

A loaf for the soul in its deep modernity!

Baked in a oven of phosphorous light,

To banish the gray and the gloom of the night.

With a clink and a clank of a heavy metal beat,

The dough starts to rise in the Sector 7 heat!

The crust is a armor of obsidian lace,

But inside is the soft, shimmering silk of her grace.

There’s a ripple of Cannabis, green and so grand,

And Psilocybin mushrooms that sprout in the sand!

Woven with chocolate and cinnamon drift,

To give the old gears of the ego a lift.

The Penguin stands guard with a tuxedo-clad flair,

As the scent of the peaches perfumes the stale air.

He rhymes with the precision of ancient decree:

“The time that you waste is the time you aren't free!”

Like a poem by Stallings, the meter is tight,

With a rhyme scheme that dances in phosphor-glow light.

Yet it roars like a engine, a iron-wrought song,

To tell you that life, truly lived, is quite long!

So take a big bite of the swirl and the weave,

And find the lost garden you used to believe!

For the machinery’s clogged, but the babka is sweet,

And the turtle is dancing on pizza-crust feet!